


Blood on Your Hands

by thehatpile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehatpile/pseuds/thehatpile
Summary: "Dave’s fought real monsters now, beaten them down, grown up, fucking died to obtain Godhood. No longer a frightened, scrawny child, fighting for his life. Now he’s fighting back. Now he’s winning. He’s gonna win."Dave fights his demons. Dirk helps bring him out of the past.





	Blood on Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> for my friend who has wizened with age. happy wizened with age day.

   It’s a familiar scene. The cloudless, blue Texas sky offers no protection from the glaring sun, the smell of car fumes and heated pavement detectable even from up on the roof of the high-rise Dave calls home. Sweat drips down the sides of Dave’s face, some catching in his eyes, body so tensely strung he barely registers the sting of the salt. His breath comes out deep and even, humidity filling his lungs like a dizzying fog. It’s hard to hear over the sound of traffic below, especially when he’s trying to hear something as quiet as Bro’s movements, but he remembers his training, how to be selective with his senses, how to truly focus and attune to his surroundings.

   And he is attuned, more than he ever has been. Never more focused, never more aware of the weight of the sword in his hands, the way his shirt sticks to his sweat-soaked back. Everything is heightened, even—there!

   Dave actually manages to hear Bro’s footsteps before the swish of his sword slicing through the air, and he catches the arc of Bro’s katana with his own broadsword easily. He’s tall enough now that Bro’s towering over him doesn’t frighten him the way it used to, and he boldly pushes back. Bro stumbles, but catches himself quickly, flashstepping behind him before Dave has a chance to capitalize on Bro’s downed guard. Dave still can’t compare to Bro in the reflex territory, but hey; he’s the one who’s a God, not Bro.

   A second Dave materializes behind the original, blocking Bro’s sword with a loud clang. Dave doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. It takes more than noises to scare him now.

   The original Dave runs around Bro to stand opposite future Dave, swinging his sword down on Bro’s undefended back. He turns to parry him but is unable to follow up, since future Dave is already attacking him again. The two Daves bring down their swords relentlessly, so that even with Bro’s lightning-fast reflexes, all he can do is block and dodge.

   Dave has him on the ropes. For the first time in his life, he’s dominating a battle between him and his Bro. He can see it in Bro’s face, the furrow of his brow, his usually neutral expression turned into a tight frown, the sweat rolling off his chin and staining the front of his polo. Dave’s fought real monsters now, beaten them down, grown up, fucking _died_ to obtain _Godhood_ . No longer a frightened, scrawny child, fighting for his life. Now he’s fighting back. Now he’s winning. He’s gonna _win_.

   The hectic elation of it all makes him drop his guard, and Bro’s able to push future Dave away by jamming the butt of his katana behind him and into Dave’s stomach. Free of constantly defending himself, he raises his katana above the Dave in front of him. Dave can see it in his face. He’s pissed. This isn’t training. He doesn’t want his “lil bro” to dodge or block him. Bro’s trying to kill him.

   Dave smiles smugly and disappears.

   Bro’s sword swings through nothing, throwing him completely off balance. Before he has time to compose himself, the remaining Dave dashes past him, sword arcing towards his neck.

_Ssshhhw, shhk, splirt—_

   It’s a clean cut. Bro has no time to react, no time to make a sound before his head hits the roof with a wet thunk, katana clattering to the roof. Blood burbles up from his neck, soaking his white polo with red before the headless body crumples, dropping onto the roof like it’s hot. His head rolls further away, a trail of crimson smeared behind it, shades knocked off in the process. More blood pools around Bro’s body, spreading until it starts to surround Dave’s sneakers.

   Dave drops his sword, panting heavily as he takes in the gory scene before him, then looks down at his own blood-splattered body. His hands match the deep red pooling beneath him, and he can taste iron on his lips.

   He did it. He finally fucking did it.

   A delirious laugh bubbles inside Dave, but he suppresses it into a sick-sounding giggle, clutching at his sides. He did it. He won. He’s free. The only monster Dave let get away and he’s _dead_ , dead by his own hands, gone forever; sweet, sweet closure, thy name is bloody murder.

   The dizzying madness sweeps through Dave quickly, leaving him feeling content and full once it passes. Something like postcoital bliss overtakes him, and he sighs, looking up at the Texan sky. Somehow, it’s not hot out anymore. A cool breeze rustles his hair. A pure white cloud blows over the sun, shading the roof.

   He wants to admire his handiwork.

   Blood ripples out from Dave’s steps as he circles Bro’s body, scoffing at his prone form. Who’s weak now? Pathetic.

   Bro’s shades crunch under his feet as he walks over to inspect the head. It’s face down in the puddle of blood still oozing from its stub of neck. Dave snorts and kicks it gently, rolling it over with his foot so he can see Bro’s undoubtedly shocked expression.

   The world drops out from under him. Suddenly, he’s thirteen years old again. Small, fragile, powerless. Terrified.

   No longer is the breeze pleasant, but instead frigid, the chill cutting Dave to the bone. The blue sky darkens with a heavy cloak of clouds, until there’s no more blue to look at, no sun in his life. This isn’t Bro’s face. It’s too sweet. Too innocent. Too young.

   Dave doesn’t notice that he stopped breathing until his lungs begin screaming for air, causing him to suck in a sharp breath. The smell and taste of gore fills his chest and head, his eyes crossing as he doubles over and heaves, nothing coming out.

   He kneels in the blood and picks up his brother’s head, shaky hands cradling it and twitchy fingers caressing through familiar golden hair.

   "Dirk?”

   Betrayed orange eyes shoot open to glare at him. Dirk’s mouth gapes, transmitting Dave’s own piercing, terrified screams.

~~

 _Haaaahhhh_ _—_ _!_

   Dave wakes up with a loud gasp, springing upright in his bed, hands clutching at the sheets. It’s dark. And warm. Where is he? What’s happened?

   For a horrifying moment, he tastes iron again, feels the slick of blood on his body. He wipes at his face in a panic, trying to rub it off—oh. Not iron, but salt. He’s drenched in sweat. And in bed. A nightmare?

   A mumbled sound of complaint next to him quickly grounds him in reality, the stirring of the warm, living body next to him bringing him out of the past.

   "Bro, it’s beddy-bye. It’s nighty-night, dude,” Dirk mumbles, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

   The sigh of relief that escapes Dave takes the last of his adrenaline-high energy out of him, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind. “Yeah. Sorry I woke you.”

   Dirk’s eyes shoot open at the shakiness in Dave’s voice, the sharp orange almost making Dave retch again.

   "Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks in a soft voice, suddenly wide awake and alert as he sits up to rest a hand on Dave’s shoulder. Dave looks blearily at Dirk’s hand and then his face before he pulls him back down onto the bed, pulling the covers up and curling tightly into Dirk’s embrace.

   "Nothing. I’m fine,” Dave says sleepily, relaxing further when Dirk’s arms tighten around him.

   He feels his brother’s lips brush gently against his forehead, and he returns the kiss to the front of Dirk’s throat. He whimpers softly as he feels the feathery light pulse of blood under his lips, so softly that Dirk barely notices the weak noise. But he does, and his arms squeeze tighter around Dave.

   Silence. A comfortable one, or it is to Dave, at least. The vividness of his nightmare turns murky, nothing more than some ominous shadows in the corner of his mind. He can feel himself drifting off, the smell of Dirk and home lulling him back to sleep, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with Dirk’s. He feels Dirk fidget.

   "Dave,” Dirk starts, voice serious, “you know I would never do anything to hurt you, right?” His voice wavers at the end of the question, a pitiful, pleading noise.

   Dave swallows the thick bile of guilt rising in his throat, the sour taste forcing him awake again. “Yeah. I know.”


End file.
